


Metal Heart

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vegas au! This was originally based off an amazing drawing from seancodydirection and then became really long and strange. Please just suspend all disbelief about everything, especially: how blackjack works, casino policy, how Nick would make money as a blackjack dealer, the logistics of dance floor fingering, and One Direction hiring only a male stripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metal Heart

**Author's Note:**

> 100% fictional (I'm pretty sure neither Nick nor Louis have ever worked in a casino in Las Vegas??). Fake, please don't read if you're in it, you won't enjoy it and also sorry.
> 
> Title is from the title of a Cat Power song. Bonus shout out to the "Primadonna [Burns Remix]" which was very inspiring 
> 
> tumblr: ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com

"It’s One  _Direction_ ,” Nick says, as he shuffles a deck of cards. It’s 4 PM on a Friday, and One fucking Direction, biggest boyband in the world, is coming into Nick’s casino in about six hours. They've reserved a private room, and lo and behold, Nick Grimshaw's been randomly selected as their private dealer. Probably because he's British as well.

“C’mon, they’re big. They’re massive. It’s  _kinda_  cool, admit it.”

"Ehh," Louis says - Louis, the improbably British kid who always works shifts with Nick, who serves drink after drink to the red-faced tourists and crisp-coiffed businessmen Nick deals to. He’s a bit of twat, but Nick feels a certain kinship with him - both of them being expats, and all. It hasn’t really translated to friendship, yet, but Nick’s giving it some time. 

He’s currently leaning against Nick’s empty blackjack table, in his usual and frankly distracting uniform of costume bunny ears, heels, and a pair of barely-there navy blue briefs. Nick thanks the Lord he was never young nor fit enough to dress up in all that. He  _is_  forced to wear a ridiculous tux, in some misguided attempt for a classy atmosphere, but at least his thighs are covered. 

Louis sighs, yanks his bunny ears off and tosses them on the table, glancing back at the manager as he steps out of his heels, immediately sinking down a good three inches in Nick’s line of sight. Their manager’s not looking, thankfully. They’re both technically on break, but Louis’ still not supposed to remove any part of his uniform. They both know the rules.

"I still don’t think much of them," he says. 

Nick rolls his eyes. “Well, no matter what you think, we’re together on this one tonight, just you and me. Don’t act so tight when they’re actually here.” 

Louis waves him off and chews his bottom lip. “Try it out then.” 

"What?" 

"Deal me in," Louis says, arching an eyebrow. "And show me how we’re gonna make money tonight." 

And, oh -  _that_. Well.

Nick may or may not cheat, sometimes. That sounds -  _harsh_ , cheating. It’s not exactly cheating. It’s just strategy. 

Strategy that sometimes involving palming certain cards that would make Nick lose. That kind of strategy.

"Fine," he says, dealing, and they play in silence until Nick tries it out, and Louis says immediately, “You’ve put it up your sleeve.”

Nick curses and whips the card out, tosses it onto the table. 

“How do you always see that?” 

Louis smirks. “You’re slow, and I’m quick. S’not rocket science.” 

“I am not  _slow_ ,” Nick says, huffing out a breath. “I’ll have you know that fooled over a dozen people last weekend. Had them entirely cleaned out.” 

“With the idiots who come here, I’m not surprised,” Louis says. He sticks his ridiculous bunny ears back onto his head and adjusts his briefs. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to empty some wallets myself. Practice before tonight, I don't want to be embarrassed in front of the biggest boyband in the world.”

"Oh, now he cares about the boyband," Nick says, and Louis just raises his middle finger and then slips back into his heels, wobbles a bit and then steadies himself. 

“How do I look?” 

“Good enough to eat, as always,” Nick says, rolling his eyes. “Good luck, Tomlinson.” 

Louis carefully fixes his fringe. “Don’t need luck,” he says, grinning at Nick. “Have you seen my arse?” 

“Such a twat,” Nick breathes, shaking his head, but he watches Louis walk away. It’d be impossible not to. 

Louis slides immediately, smoothly, onto the lap of some gray-headed bloke he’d been chatting up since eleven in the morning, and Nick shakes his head, sighing, and starts to shuffle again. 

\--

Thankfully, One Direction is both more drunk and more slow than Louis Tomlinson, and soon enough, Nick finds himself cleaning up quite nicely. 

“No fucking way,” the muscly one says - Liam, Nick thinks. Liam Payne. He’s got to remember, he’s supposed to be professional. “Nooo fucking way you can - here, another, let’s do another, deal me in.” 

Louis flicks his eyes up to Nick’s above Liam’s head as Liam digs in his pockets for some chips. His mouth twitches in a smile, and Nick ducks his head and deals the cards again. 

A half hour later Liam’s slurring, a stack of poker chips in front of Nick and two empty glasses on the table. “That’s mental,” he says, seeming pretty good-natured for having lost over two thousand dollars in a half hour. “You’re brilliant, mate. I’m shit at this.” 

“Another go?” Nick says mildly, as he shuffles. 

Liam looks hesitant, and Louis shoots Nick a challenging little look, says, “Or you could sit down for a while, Mr. Payne. Let one of your mates have a go at it. Up for another dance?” 

“The blonde one looks quick,” Nick says, making his voice casual, thoughtful. “Bet he’d be difficult to beat.”

“He’s not,” Liam says, sharply, bellying up to the table again. “Get me another drink. Deal me in.” 

Nick tries not to grin in triumph, as Louis says with barely concealed irritation, “Of course, Mr. Payne.” 

He brings back a whiskey-Coke, hovers there for a minute until Nick says, “I think Mr. Payne’s occupied, love, why don’t you go see what the others want?” 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Liam says, voice thick with drink, studying his cards. 

Louis narrows his eyes at Nick, deprived of his drunkest cash cow, but he takes off. 

Liam sticks around for another half hour, loses another five grand, which is -  _quite_  pleasing, honestly. Nick’s payout will be fucking brilliant, tonight. Over Liam’s shoulder he can see Louis on Zayn’s lap, hips working down against him. One of Zayn’s long arms is draped around the curve of Louis’ waist, and his face - or what Nick can see of it - is utterly blissful. 

So Louis’ not doing too badly either. Maybe they’ll go out after this - get lobster or sommat at 3 AM, in some shiny fancy all-night place, the like of which Nick doesn’t frequent too often. Ooh, Nick wants champagne. 

His eyes flit back over to Louis, to the curves of his tan, lean body, the slow grind of his hips. What he’d really like is to buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of champagne, pour it all over Louis’ naked body, and lick it off until Louis’ fucking begging for Nick’s cock. 

He coughs just slightly, entirely distracted by the image, and looks back at the table just as Liam says, “Ha! I think I won!” He drags one measly chip back toward his side of the table. 

Nick’ll let him have it. 

—

Nick goes through Liam like loo roll, leaves him a good deal poorer than he was before he stepped up to the table, and moves onto Niall, and then Zayn. Louis hangs over Zayn’s shoulder the whole time - murmuring in his ear, petting his arm, a mostly-naked distraction that Nick appreciates. Makes Zayn easier to beat, anyway. Zayn keeps a possessive arm around his shoulders, calls Louis  _babe_. It’s funny in a way. 

Louis is bloody good at what he does. 

_And so am I_ , he thinks happily, when Zayn fucks up, lets out a string of quiet curses and gives up 500 dollars worth of chips in one round.  _We’re both really fucking good at what we do, and that’s why we should fuck._

When Zayn’s satisfied, he drags Louis off to the chaise lounge again, lets Louis back onto his lap. Nick’s sweeping his chips into a bag, suppressing a yawn, when the last member of One Direction slides into a seat at his table. 

Nick looks up, already reaching for the cards. “Fancy a game, love?” 

“Nah, I’m alright,” Harry Styles says, taking a sip of something clear in a small glass. “Reckon you’re pretty good, everyone’s near cleaned out.” 

Nick ducks his head deferentially. “Oh, it’s just luck.” 

Harry smiles, crunching down on an ice cube. “Well, luck seems to favor you most often, er - Nicholas.” 

Nick glances down at his name tag, pinned to the front of his suit. 

“Lady Luck is an unpredictable woman,” he says, tilting his head. “Sure you don’t want me to deal you in?”  

“I fancy keeping my money tonight, but thanks.” Harry shifts on the stool. 

“Bit smarter than your bandmates, aren’t you,” Nick breathes, and Harry laughs, thank God. 

“And a bit more sober, I think. Zayn might actually be passed-out under that stripper.” 

Nick bites down a laugh. “Well, he’s a talented individual. He’s very soothing, there’s no blaming poor Mr. Malik.” 

“I’m sure.” Harry gulps from his drink. “You know, I’m pretty bloody impressed with this whole thing.” 

Nick looks up at him. “Not sure I know what you mean, Mr. Styles.” 

“The whole - scam sort of thing,” Harry says, gesturing with one arm. “Get us drunk, get us emptying our pockets.” 

Nick looks back down, shuffles the cards, for something to do. He's not sure why Harry's words make him feel a bit - skin-crawly. It's just business, after all. “Nothing wrong with a bit of intoxicated gambling, especially when you’ve got cash to spare.” 

“Something wrong with hiding cards, though,” Harry says, almost - sadly, like he’s sorry he has to call Nick out. “Me dad used to play like that. Can see where you put ‘em, right up your sleeve. Isn’t that how Liam kept losing round after round? Never really stood a chance, did he?” 

Nick’s stomach goes cold with panic, and he keeps looking down, at the cards shifting in his hands, keeping his face perfectly still. Shit.  _Shit_. “Fraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, love.” 

“Hmm. Alright,” Harry says, with a shrug. “Just wanted you to know you didn’t fool all of us.” 

He slides off the stool. “It’s a good idea, anyway,” he says. “We’re young and dumb and rich so we don’t know better, yeah?” 

Nick makes eye contact with him, swallowing hard. 

“Is that policy?” Harry says, leaning an arm against the table. “Of this casino?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nick repeats, very steadily.

Harry smiles, his mouth tipping upwards, a dimple popping out in one cheek. His eyes are very green. 

“No worries,” he says. “Just try not to be so obvious, yeah? You never know when someone might be more sober than you’d like them to be.” 

And - oh, that stings. Nick would like to think that he could fool anyone, sober or no.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sets the deck of cards aside, fingers itching nervously, mind already running over a contingency plan if he gets sacked tonight because of One bloody Direction. 

“How much did you make tonight?” Harry asks, glancing over at where his fellow popstars are sprawled out in front of the fake gas fireplace. Louis’ on top of Niall now, his hips moving in long, slow rolls. 

“Mr. Styles-” 

“No, honestly. I’m just wondering. Between the two of you. Five grand? Ten?” 

Nick looks away from him. “I’m sorry, sir, but I- I can’t share that.” 

"Sir, now," Harry says, laughing a little, not unkindly. "You don’t have to call me sir, I’m not gonna rat you out. Just letting you know. Maybe next time we’ll avoid this casino, just, y’know. We’re not  _actually_  made of money.” 

Nick’s face is hot and he feels small and stupid. 

"Perhaps that would be wise," he says, the closest he’ll get to admitting it, and Harry grins like he’s said something funny, slaps the tabletop with one hand. 

"Night, Nicholas." 

"Good night, Mr. Styles." 

Harry turns away, and Nick lets out a shuddery breath, heart racing like he’s just jumped out of the way of a car. 

—

They leave soon after that. Liam and Niall are practically being carried by their team of burly security men, and Zayn’s hard to tear away from Louis, murmuring something in his ear that makes Louis laugh, whispering into the curve of his neck. 

Harry looks at Nick on the way out, gives him a nod, a quiet, knowing sort of expression on his face, and Nick smiles tightly and looks down. 

Nick’s manager comes in when Nick’s mostly cleaned up, says, “Group of businessmen coming in now, if you’re up for running a table upstairs. All coked up, but they seem friendly.” 

"I’ve got to go," Nick says, looking over where Louis is shrugging a sweatshirt over his shoulders. "Sorry." 

He claps Nick on the arm. “No worries, Nick. Good work tonight.” 

"Thanks," Nick says, holding a smile on his face until his manager leaves, then letting it drop. 

It sneaks back when he sees Louis again, so much shorter without his heels, feet stuffed into Converse and dark jeans tugged up over his curvy thighs. 

"Hey, you," Nick says, as Louis walks toward the table. 

Louis grins, slow and sly. “Well?” 

"Well," Nick says, shaking his bag of chips. "Did alright." 

Louis holds up a stack of fifties and hundreds, carefully folded into a thick wedge. “Me too, I suppose.” 

"Shit," Nick breathes, holding his hand out. "Let me see." 

"Fuck off," Louis says, shoving the money into his backpack. "Let’s go get drunk." 

He flushes, avoids Nick’s eyes. “If you haven’t got plans, I mean.” 

"My plans were to get drunk, so that sounds perfect," Nick says, shrugging. "Let me change out of this bloody penguin suit, yeah? And we’ll go."  

Louis nods. “Meet you upstairs in a half hour?” 

"Perfect." 

Louis gives him a lopsided grin and turns away. 

\--

Nick scrubs his face, changes into jeans and a shirt and his leather jacket, and cashes in his chips. It’s a good bloody amount, a  _great_  amount. He’ll be able to pay his share of the rent for the next two months and still have enough leftover to get truly fucking smashed with Louis tonight. 

If he wants to only pay rent for one month, he’d have enough to get a hotel room with Louis tonight - but then, he’s getting ahead of himself. 

When he makes it upstairs, Louis’ sat outside the front door of the hotel, hoodie zipped up to his neck in the brisk night, a cigarette in his mouth. 

He nods at Nick. “Want a fag?” 

"I’d love one, cheers," Nick says gratefully - he’s got a pack, but it’s at home because he’s an idiot - and Louis shakes one out for him. 

"Managed to buy a little party favor," Louis says, standing close to him, lighting Nick’s cigarette with his own and grinning up at him. 

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Did you?” 

Louis smirks, tugs at Nick’s hand, and Nick looks down between them to see a tiny baggie of coke in Louis’ palm, twisted at the top.

"Picked up an 8-ball on my way out," Louis says softly. "Up for it?" 

"You’re a fucking godsend," Nick breathes, feeling his pulse pick up just from looking at it. It’s been a bloody while since he’s done cocaine - it’s a bit above his paygrade, and when he’s not at the casino he’s back home in Sunrise Manor walking the dog or watching telly with his roommates. He gets fucked up on his nights off, but mostly off three-dollar Trader Joe’s wine and weed. Not coke.

"Figure we deserve it," Louis says, tucking the baggie back in his front pocket. 

"That we certainly do,” Nick says with a long-suffering sigh. “Know where I’ve been wanting to go?” 

"Hmm?" Louis murmurs, taking a long drag off his cigarette. 

"Chateau. Y’know, at Paris?" 

"Posh as fuck, innit." 

"Yeah, well, we’re posh tonight, aren’t we," Nick says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Think the popstars rubbed off on us." 

"They fucking wish," Louis says, with a dirty grin.

Nick snorts and zips his jacket, giving a little shiver. It really does cool down after sunset. Nick’s still not used to it, even after nearly three years of desert living. “Let’s go, then.” 

"Yeah, alright." Louis stubs his fag out and digs his hands into his pockets, yawns. "I need to get fucked up, though, or I’ll fall asleep." 

"Same. Let’s stop off somewhere on the way. Is it classy to do lines in the bathroom of, like, a Chipotle? Are we classy, Louis Tomlinson?" 

Louis makes a considering face. “Signs point to no, Nicholas Grimshaw, but I really can’t be arsed to care.” 

Nick hides a grin in his collar and takes off. 

\--

They weave their way through the usual blend of wasted tourists, uni students on their holidays, scary-looking men in posh suits, and harried locals just trying to get home. It’s just past two, but it’s bright as day out, as always. They call New York the city that never sleeps, but Nick’s spent time there and here, and he thinks the title belongs to Vegas. 

He digs his phone out, texts Gellz and Henry -  _wont be home til late (maybe not at all??) going out with a mate from work DON’T WAIT UP loves. oh & rent’s covered for next month x _

He adds a sunglasses emoji and a heart, and shoves his phone back into his jeans pocket, looks over at Louis. Louis is walking with his head ducked against the chill breeze, hair coming undone from his quiff. His face is scrubbed clean of any makeup and he looks young and small. 

Nick has to fight off a stupid sort of smile, and Louis looks over at him. 

"What?" 

"Nothing, nothing," Nick says hastily, and Louis makes a suspicious face and shoves him with his hip. 

Nick shoves him back, of course, which makes Louis smack him, and Nick nearly stumbles into a group of women done up in feather boas and printed pink t-shirts that read  _KELLY’S BACHELORETTE PARTY APRIL 15 2014!_

"Shit, sorry," Nick says, laughing, and he gets a few drunken protests as the women stagger past. 

"Twat," Nick hisses at Louis once they’re gone. Louis just smirks wide, and then says, pointing, "Ooh, there’s a Sbarro’s. I’m bloody starving." 

Nick checks his watch - nearly 2:30 already - and follows him in. 

It’s quite strange, being sat across from Louis Tomlinson, sharing a massive slice of cheese pizza in a fluorescent-lit fast food restaurant at half past two. Not bad, just strange. Nick’s never seen Louis outside of work. It’s jarring to see him in proper clothes, for one thing, and now Nick’s watching him tear his pizza into tiny pieces and pop them into his mouth, licking his fingers and yawning between bites. 

Nick looks up, scans the restaurant. Ah, yes. A toilet at the back. How convenient.

"Hey," he says, nodding at him. Louis looks up, thumb in his mouth, eyebrows raising questioningly. 

"There’s a toilet," Nick says meaningfully, and Louis snorts. 

"Yeah, alright," he says, picking up a chunk of crust and popping it in his mouth. "Let’s do it, then." 

Once they’re locked inside, Louis pulls the baggie out, along with a battered leather wallet. Nick yanks out his Visa. 

"We’re in the toilet of a Sbarro’s," he says, just wanting to make sure they’re both aware of the situation. It’s half-exciting, half-depressing, if Nick’s honest. The room smells of old piss and the lights are flickering, but in a minute Nick hopefully won’t give a shit. 

"Hold still," Louis says bossily, ignoring him, steadying Nick’s hand and shaking out a bit of powder onto his card, held flat in his palm. He cuts it with his own card, tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration. 

"Put your arm down a bit," he says, exasperated, and Nick laughs a little in his throat and lowers his hand so Louis can get at the coke with a rolled-up hundred. 

"You’re terribly short," he says, his hand shaking just a bit. He forces it steady. "The heels fool me every time." 

"Shut up," Louis says, before he leans down and snorts a line. He lifts his head, sniffing in hard, rubbing the back of his hand over his nose. 

"Fuck," he says, letting out a hard breath. "That’s - alright." 

"Lemme," Nick says greedily, and Louis takes the card out of his hand, hands him the bag. 

They do three lines each and then pile out of the toilet, Louis still sniffing hard, wiping his nose with a piece of toilet paper. 

"Allergies," Nick says to a passerby who gives them a strange look, and Louis smacks him again and pulls him out the door. 

Chateau is packed, even this late, but at least the queue’s died down, and they get in pretty easy. By the time they get out into the middle of the dance floor, Nick’s starting to feel - fucking  _alright_. His blood’s buzzing hot, and he leans down, half-yells into Louis’ ear. 

"Drink?" 

Louis nods, follows him to the ornate bar, bottles stacked high, back-lit and shimmering. 

"What’ll you have?" Nick says, curving an arm around Louis’ back. He probably shouldn’t, but,  _coke_. Louis’ warm, sweating a bit. 

"Shots?" Louis says back, a challenging expression on his pointy little face, and Nick snorts. 

"Two shots of your most expensive vodka," he says to the bartender, and she rolls her perfectly-lined eyes like she can see straight through Nick, see that he’s never been to a place like this and he probably never will again.

But Nick’s properly fucked-up, now, so instead of looking away or laughing sheepishly, he says loudly, “Make it four, actually. Doubles.” 

Louis squawks, and Nick turns to him. 

"Scared?" he says, raising an eyebrow. 

Louis smirks straight back at him. “Just want to make sure you can afford it.” 

Nick can’t, most days, but he’s got a couple bills tucked in his back pocket that make him feel almost as high as the coke. 

"Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, sweetheart," Nick says, running his tongue over his top teeth, feeling out each ridge, his head spinning. His skin is prickling with sweat. 

"Try and keep up," Louis sighs, as the bartender slides the shots onto the tabletop, and Nick pulls a face at him and throws the first shot back. Louis does the same.

Oh  _god_. Expensive or not, it’s still vodka, and it burns fiercely going down, leaves him sputtering. 

Louis coughs, delicately, reaches for his next shot and downs it. 

"Jesus  _Christ_ ,” Nick chokes out. “That is - you’re mad.” 

"And you’re weak," Louis says, wiping his mouth, letting out a harsh breath, his mouth curling up in satisfaction. "C’mon, then. Let’s see you do it." 

Nick doesn’t really want to. 

"Peer pressure," he whines, poking at the second shot with his fingertip, and Louis scoffs. 

"I’m not your peer, old man.  _Do it_.” 

Nick does it. 

Louis looks pleased, when Nick forces his watering eyes open.

"What do I win?" Nick croaks. 

Louis shrugs and takes his hand, pulls him out onto the dance floor. 

\--

After one song they’re dancing close, and after two they’re grinding hard. Louis is tucked against Nick’s front, small and curvy and warm, and his  _arse_ \- well, Nick’s seen it, seen it nearly naked every night at work, seen it flexing as Louis works down onto some drunk older bloke, tucking a hundred dollar bill into the waistband of his knickers. 

But he’s never felt it properly, felt it pressed up against Nick’s cock. God, it’s nice. 

His other hand is wrapped around Louis’ waist like a seatbelt, hand squeezing occasionally when Nick’s head throbs and he needs to gripsomething tight. He’d apologize for being rough, but every time he digs his fingers in Louis moans, shoves back into him, his head tipping back against Nick’s chest. 

It goes on and on like that, Nick suspended in a blissful kind of euphoria, Louis in front of him and the beat throbbing heavy in his heart and chest and head. He could stay like this for ages. He’s not tired, he’s not thirsty, he’s just - he’s  _there_. He’s present. He’s alive. 

He’s  _so_  fucking high, basically. 

He honestly thinks it’ll go on forever. It flits through his fevered mind - _god, we could stay right here all night_  - and then as a song dies down, shifts seamlessly into another, Louis tips his head back and drags Nick’s hand up his chest to his neck, leans up and kisses Nick backwards. 

His mouth is soft and plush and so open, and Nick keeps his hand right there - over Louis’ neck, feeling his pulse throb beneath his thumb - and snogs him senseless. 

Maybe this is what he wanted all along, when he agreed to go out with Louis. 

Who fucking knows. 

Louis moans into his mouth when Nick puts a hand over the bulge in his jeans, presses the heel of his palm down and rubs hard. 

"Fu-uck," Louis gasps, pulling away from the kiss, turning around in Nick’s arms and reaching up. "Fuck." 

The angle’s better like this, and Nick leans down, slides his hands down and around the round curve of Louis’ arse and pulls him up, puts their mouths together. 

He’s nearly lifting Louis off his toes - the fucker is  _properly_  short, Nick’s realizing - and his arms start to tremble after a few minutes, until he lets go and Louis pulls away, licking at Nick’s bottom lip, his eyes wide and bright. 

"Hey," he says, one hand on Nick’s chest. "Hey, we should, like. Find. A place." 

He’s slurring, but Nick’s on his level, so it comes through loud and clear. And it’s a good fucking idea. 

"Alright," Nick says back, getting a handful of Louis’ arse, squeezing hard. "Yes, yes, let’s go." 

Louis’ opens his eyes from where they’ve fluttered shut at Nick’s hand on his bum, and he blinks up at Nick, then turns on his heel and drags him off. 

They find a place. It’s a toilet, again, which is a disturbing trend, but Nick could not give less of a fuck at the moment. 

It’s a bit nicer than a Sbarro’s, anyway - a stall with a full door all the way down to the ground, the walls oddly carpeted, fuzzy under Nick’s palm. 

"Fancy," Nick says, stumbling against the door, his balance entirely off. 

"Told you this place was posh," Louis says, back against the wall, his hands fisted in Nick’s t-shirt. His eyes are shining, his mouth wet, cheeks flushed pink. "Come here." 

Nick goes. 

They kiss for a bit more, music pounding distantly outside the toilet door, and then Louis takes a condom and lube out of his wallet and turns around, and Nick bends him over, lifts his hips up and spreads his full, gorgeous arse open and fucks him. 

Just like that. It’s a blur in Nick’s head, all of it slurring together until a pure, sweet moment of clarity. He’s buried in the tight heat of Louis’ arse, one hand clenching against the wall, the other shoving Louis down so he can get deep. 

Louis cries out, when Nick thrusts back into him, and Nick grins wildly, hair hanging sweat-damp in his eyes. 

"Fucking hell, you’re tight," he says, incoherently, slamming against Louis’ prostate, groaning at how he twitches around Nick at the feeling.

Louis shoves back against him, gasping. He’s bracing himself against the wall, giving as good as he gets, thighs trembling as he grinds hard on Nick's cock. Nick wouldn’t expect any less, not from a mouthy little shit like Louis Tomlinson. 

"Gonna come?" Louis chokes out, doing something with his hips that makes Nick’s eyes roll helplessly back in his head. "C’mon, c’mon-" 

Nick slams into him one last time, a perfect thrust that sends sparks all the way down to his clenched toes, and tips over the edge. 

Louis moans loud and smacks his fist against the wall, clenching around Nick’s cock as he comes, and the tight grip of it actually hurts, Nick’s cock softening and sensitive, before he grips Louis’ hips with both hands and holds him still as he slides out. 

Louis shudders all over when Nick does that - Nick can feel it under his fingers. 

"Fuck," Nick says, tying the condom up and tossing it into the little bin sat so helpfully next to the door. He feels impossibly clear-headed, and yet very, very out of it. "Fuck." 

Louis laughs hoarsely, fumbling for a length of loo roll, cleaning himself up. He reaches back to swipe at his arse, and Nick leans back against the other wall of the toilet and watches shamelessly. 

His fingers itch to slip back in, to work Louis open again, and he grins to himself. Fucking hell, he hasn’t fucked anyone in a club for  _years_. 

Louis turns around, yanking up his pants with shaky hands. He keeps swallowing, licking his lips, twitching. 

"Well," he says, giving a little wriggle and a wince, like he can still feel Nick’s cock in him. 

"Well," Nick echoes, and Louis leans forward, kisses him again. His mouth is slack and pliant post-shag, opens easily for Nick’s tongue, and it’s - hot and messy and soft and good. Nick’s body is buzzing pleasantly, and he feels very, very pleased with himself. 

"You’re bloody gorgeous," he says, softly. 

Louis smirks, looks away. 

"Let’s do a bump," he says, and Nick laughs and says, "Fuck, yes, let’s."

\--

They dance again after that - Nick’s head bursting with it, his limbs heavy and aching but still moving, like he can’t stop. 

Louis dances against his front, facing him, and they kiss on and off for a couple songs - breathing against each others’ mouths, lips slack. 

When the beat drops on a song Nick bloody  _loves_ , he accidentally squeezes Louis’ arse hard in excitement, and Louis whimpers into his mouth. 

"Shit," Nick murmurs, curving his hands against the small of Louis’ back. "Sorry." 

"S’alright," Louis breathes, reaching behind himself and taking Nick’s wrist in his hand. "I’m just - sore." 

He pulls Nick’s hand down to his bum, and Nick lets out a soft, surprised noise when Louis carefully guides Nick’s fingers down the back of his jeans, against the soft hot of his skin. 

"Feel it?" Louis mumbles against Nick’s lips. "I’m - wet." 

Nick cups Louis’ arse cheek with his hand, thumb resting in Louis’ crack, and Louis arches his back and shoves his bum out, an obvious invitation. 

They’re definitely in public. They  _definitely_ shouldn’t. 

But - fucking  _hell_ , who cares. Not Nick. Apparently not Louis. And that’s all the people Nick cares about at the moment. 

They don’t kiss, while Nick fingers him. Louis puts his face in Nick’s chest, and Nick curves an arm around his back, works inside Louis with two of his fingers at the same time. 

He keeps Louis’ jeans pulled up, so it’s not like his arse is out, but Nick’s sure people can tell what they’re doing. Louis is still slick with lube, skin hot and swollen around the length of Nick’s fingers as Nick screws them inside, and he can’t stop shuddering, tightening up, breathing hard. 

After a minute he pushes at Nick with one hand, says, slurred, “Alright, alright.” 

Nick draws his fingers out, wipes them on Louis’ jeans - it was available, whatever - and Louis kisses him again. 

"Thanks," he mumbles into Nick’s mouth, and Nick, helplessly, starts laughing.

\--

They pile out of Chateau around five, smoke a couple cigarettes on the curb outside with some  _very_ drunk girls who look straight off the Kardashians, all dark straightened hair and pounds of makeup on, yelling back and forth in thick Italian accents. They’re sweet, though, especially once Louis passes around the last of his fags. 

"Hey," Louis says, snapping Nick out of his daze. "Hey, know what I want?" 

He’s chomping a piece of gum one of the girls must have given him, and Nick laughs at the expression on his face - eyes wide and strung-out and exhausted. 

"What do you want, Louis." 

Louis grins wide like a kid. “I want McDonald’s breakfast.” 

Nick snorts, and then thinks about it. It actually does sound kind of incredible. Like maybe the best idea Louis has  _ever had_. 

"Fuck yeah," he says, throwing his cigarette down and stubbing it out with his toe. "Let’s do it." 

There’s a McDonald’s a bit down, towards the MGM, and once they’ve ordered an obscene amount of greasy breakfast food, they take it across the road to the Bellagio. The lake is placid and empty, everything gray in the half-light of dawn, and Louis finds an empty bench, sits down with a huff and sets to feeding himself.

It’s a bit chilly - Nick’s sweat cooling and making him shiver - but it’s not awful. The sun’ll be up soon, anyway, and Nick'll be wishing for nighttime again.  

Louis tucks one knee up to his chest, takes a massive bite of his sandwich. A bit of egg falls out onto the bench, but Nick doesn’t say anything. His head is starting to spin a bit, his whole body aching. Louis must have it worse - he’d been dancing for hours at work, even before they went out. Even before Nick fucked him hard against the wall, bent him over and spread him out and -

God, he’s too fucking tired to even think about it. It feels like years ago. 

"Fuck," Nick says, on an exhale, taking a deep sip of his iced coffee and stretching his neck to the side, feeling his joints pop. 

"What," Louis mumbles around another bite. 

"I’m going to be so fucking sore from this, aren’t I." 

“ _You_  are?” Louis says immediately, arching an eyebrow. “No one fucked  _you_  in the arse.” 

Nick purses his lips. "Pretty sure they didn't, yeah. I would've noticed that, right?" 

Louis laughs a bit, into his sleeve, and fumbles for his tea, takes a deep gulp.

"So don't you dare talk about sore," he says firmly. 

"Aw, did I leave you aching, poor love?" Nick says, feeling a warm curl of satisfaction cut through the exhaustion. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

"Could be a bit more gentle," Nick says, thoughtfully. "If we were in a real bed, and I wasn’t so fucked up. Maybe, like, give you a proper good time." 

"Optimistic," Louis says, his face giving nothing away, and he fumbles in the greasy paper bag for a hash brown. 

Nick just laughs, feeling oddly happy for a comedown. The sun is slowly, slowly starting to warm up, flood the sidewalks with impending heat. Right now it’s a mess outside though - the air eerily quiet, empty bottles and cups everywhere, the debris of a weekend night in Vegas. The sidewalks are mostly empty, except homeless people sleeping in doorways and tired-looking workers sweeping up the chaos for another day of destruction. Nick doesn’t envy them, but he - understands. They’re all part of the ecosystem, here. It’s a cycle. The high of the night, the dull exhaustion of the morning, the frantic days bleeding into long, wild nights again. It repeats, over and over.

He may still be fucked up. 

"Sometimes," he says, slowly, fixing his quiff with one hand, his hair tacky and greasy under his fingers. "Sometimes it feels like I’ve lived here my whole bloody life, you know?" 

Louis makes a noise of agreement into his cup of tea. 

"Which I never- thought I’d just try it, you know? Thought it’d be a laugh." 

Nick sighs, watching as a pigeon pecks at a flattened cigarette carton. 

"Wonder if I’ll ever get out of here," Louis says, quietly. 

Nick looks over at him, faintly surprised.

"You want to?" 

Louis shrugs, shoulders hunched, staring at something across the street. 

"Wouldn’t mind seeing the UK again," he says. "And, like. Dunno. I dunno, maybe not. Never mind." 

Nick keeps watching him, working over it in his head. 

"Where do you live?" he says suddenly. "Just realized I’ve got no clue." 

"Henderson," Louis says, yawning into his palm. 

"Oh, wicked. I’m in Sunrise Manor. You live with roommates, or what?" 

Louis looks sidelong at him. “Why d’you want to know?” 

"Just curious. I’ve got two. But I’m the only one who works on the Strip." 

"Me too," Louis says, nuzzling his face sleepily into his tucked-up knee, the gesture oddly endearing. "I mean, I’m the only one who works on the Strip." 

"Roommates, then." 

Louis’ silent for a minute. 

"Actually I live with my mum," he says, not looking at Nick, and Nick watches his ears go pink, his jaw clench defensively.

"Really?" Nick says, laughing a bit, coz it’s a little weird. Nick hasn’t seen his parents since two Christmases ago, and it’s - Vegas has always felt the very farthest he could get from home. He can’t picture his mum here. 

"My mum, and my four younger sisters," Louis says, carefully casual, taking a sip of tea. 

“ _Really_?” Nick repeats, wide-eyed. 

"Yes, really," Louis snaps, shooting him a tight look. "And fuck off about it." 

"I wasn’t - it’s just. Just unexpected, I guess." 

Louis hunches in on himself a bit, unless Nick’s just imagining it. 

"Yeah, well," he says. "It’s not that weird." 

"You’re not like, eighteen, are you?" 

"I’m twenty-two, fuckhead," Louis says, giving him a dirty look, eyebrows furrowing. "And I pay half the rent on the house, so don’t go on like I’m some kind of kid." 

"Your mum know what you do?" 

"Of course she does," Louis says, dismissively. 

Nick takes a bite of his sandwich, stays quiet. He never knows when he’s going to flip some switch in Louis, set him off. It’s a bit terrifying, really. 

"Why’d you come here?" Louis says after a minute. 

Nick sighs. He’s told the story a million times, and it still sounds ridiculous, even to his own ears.

"Honestly, no reason," he says. "I was sat around in London with my two best mates - I’d just gotten sacked, Henry was making fuck-all, and Gellz was working freelance, and we just - we were drunk, of course, and we just said, like. Wouldn’t it be cool if we all moved to Las Vegas? And when we were sober we still wanted to, so we did. And, like, it took a bit - nearly a year, to save up enough, to get a visa and stuff, but - in the end we just did it." 

Louis’ staring at him, stonefaced. 

"That’s the stupidest fucking reason I’ve ever heard," he says.

Nick snorts, taking a sip of his coffee. “It is, isn’t it.” 

"You were  _bored_ , so you moved to Vegas? Why not, like, New York at least? Why  _Vegas_?” 

"Too expensive," Nick says immediately. "Vegas is cheap if you don’t live downtown. I used to DJ, back in London - thought it’d be easy to pick up a DJ job, so many clubs round here." 

He takes another sip, feeling his headache recede just slightly. 

"I did, for a bit," he says. "But I didn’t make shit, so I started working at Harrah’s, learned how to deal. Just worked out."

"How long ago was that?" Louis says, scuffing his shoe on the sidewalk. 

"Mm. Three years, now." 

Louis nods, staring down at his foot. 

"Why, how long have you been here?" 

"Since I was seventeen, so like. Five years," Louis says. He snorts. "Feels like longer." 

Nick nods. Bleeding hell, what a place to come of age. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he yanks it out to see a message from Gillian. 

_you alive???????_

Nick types back -  _ONLY JUST. jokin, i’m fine fancy picking me up on the strip ? pretty please???_

He looks up at Louis, sitting with his face turned to the sun, his eyes closed. He looks strung-out but - peaceful, in the oddest way. Nick smiles at the sight and closes his own eyes, just for a minute.

His mind flits back to the night before, and helplessly, like picking a scab, he thinks about that fucking popstar, that Harry Styles, his small, knowing smile, almost pitying. The flush of shame Nick had felt at that, the way his stomach twisted. He thinks about this fucking city. What it’s done to him, what he’s done to it.

It had started out as a laugh, and then Nick had been good at dealing cards and even better at cheating, and now it’s - he doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t know what he wants. 

He doesn’t know himself at all, it feels like sometimes. He wonders if he ever will.

"Are you asleep?" Louis says, and Nick opens his eyes slowly. 

"No," he says, on an exhale, sort of wishing he was. There are birds chirping on the blue fake lake behind him, an expanse of water just behind his back, and a couple miles beyond that - scrubland and suburbs. A couple more miles past that, there’s just fucking  _sand_. Nick shivers for a second, feels abruptly lonely, right in his core. 

It hits him sometimes here. He knows he’s alright- he’s got Gillian, and Henry, and his parents when he rings them, which isn’t often enough. He’s got his job, he’s good at it, he makes money. 

But he still feels like he’s - stalling. Waiting for something. 

Louis shifts on the bench next to him, puts his foot on the ground. 

"What time’s it?" he says. 

Nick glances at his phone, held loosely in his hands. 

"Half six." 

Louis nods, slowly, and Nick glances over at him. 

"Doin’ alright?" he says, because that helps a bit. That helps the crushing fucking emptiness, a bit, thinking about someone else instead of himself and his future and his idiotic stalled life. 

Louis nods again, looking at him, and Nick is struck all over again by how fit he is, even with dark circles under his eyes and his face slack and exhausted. 

"Hey," he says, feeling the tiniest little spark of hope. Like this is something he can grab onto, in the middle of all this - stupid existential bullshit. "Hey, I had a really good night with you." 

Louis’ mouth twitches into the smallest smile. 

"You’re welcome," he says, and Nick wants to kiss him, so he does. 

It’s nice. Louis’ mouth is warm and familiar, and he curls himself close to Nick on the bench, goes pliant against him. He tastes like rich, strong black tea, and the familiar rasp of it on Nick’s tongue makes his chest do an unexpected clench of nostalgia.  _Home_ , he thinks, eyes fluttering shut. _Manchester, the countryside, a cup of tea in front of the telly, mum doing the washing-up, dad asleep on the sofa_ - 

Jesus Christ. 

He pulls back, gasps out a little breath, his hand curved round Louis’ soft, warm waist, fingers rubbing underneath the hem of his hoodie. 

"Nick?" Louis says, unsure, breath gone shallow just from the kiss. 

"You just- you taste good," Nick says, dumbly, nearly choked up from the fierce ache of it. And then, "I think I’m still fucked up." 

He’s not, almost definitely, but it puts a bit of distance between them. Because it’s the coke, and the booze, that’s making Nick’s stomach flop like he’s falling. It’s not Louis. It can’t be.

"Yeah, me too," Louis says, ducking his head. Nick squeezes his hip, moves his other hand onto the warmth of Louis’ neck and tips his chin up, pulls him wordlessly into another kiss. 

Nick slides his hand between Louis’ legs, just to hitch his thigh closer to Nick’s on the bench, and Louis murmurs something into his mouth, tugs at Nick’s bottom lip gently between his teeth, then licks back into his mouth. It’s proper  _snogging_ , then, slow and deep. Nick is abruptly aware of every part of his body - the pounding in his head and the throbbing ache in his thighs, the sunlight starting to warm every inch of exposed skin, and Louis’ hand, sneaking under his shirt, rubbing warm against Nick’s belly as they kiss. 

Nick’s so lost in it he feels shaken awake when he hears a car honk, long and loud, speeding by them on the Strip with someone screaming out the window, unintelligible. 

He pulls back, laughing. It feels forced out of him, because nothing’s really funny. 

"Arseholes," he says vaguely, and Louis nods, watching him, his eyes dark. 

"Yeah," he says, and Nick’s phone buzzes in his lap. Nick looks down - it’s Gillian ringing. 

"Shit," he says, putting it to his ear. "Just a second, sorry. Hello?" 

"Good  _morning_ , Nicholas!” Gillian sings, sounding altogether too awake. “I’m on the Strip, bitch, where are you?” 

Nick perks up just thinking about the prospect of his house, and going to bed for about a million years. 

"Straight in front of the Bellagio," he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "On a bench, in front of the lake-" 

"Oh lovely, I’m right near there," Gillian says. Nick can hear music in the background. "Ooooh, I see you! Hi babe! God, you look awful. What's up with your hair?" 

"Hang up the fucking phone," Nick laughs, watching the car pull up, across the way. He slips his phone into his pocket, holds up a finger to Gillian so she’ll wait. 

"I’ll turn around!" she screams across four lanes, and takes off again. 

"S’that your roommate?" Louis says, zipping his hoodie up, standing up when Nick does. 

"It is indeed," Nick says, yawning, covering his mouth. "You’re alright to get home? Want a ride?" 

"I’m good, cheers though. I’ll just grab the Express." Louis shifts from foot to foot. "Um-"

Gillian pulls up just then, blasting Beyoncé. 

"Put your love on topppp!" she’s wailing, and then - "Hi, Grimmy!" 

"Grimmy?" Louis says, quietly. Nick looks at him; Louis’ eyes are crinkled up, amused, and his hands are dug into his pockets. 

"Nickname," he says. "Er. I should go." 

"Yeah," Louis murmurs. "Good, um. Good night, I guess. Morning." 

Nick nods. 

"When’s your next shift?" he says. 

"Tuesday." Louis puts a hand over his eyes to shield from the sun, beating down hot and strong now. 

"See you Tuesday, then." 

Louis grins, so quick Nick almost misses it. 

"Suppose so," he says. "Bye, Nick Grimshaw." 

"Bye, Louis Tomlinson," Nick says softly, backing away until he’s at the car, and he fumbles for the door handle. "Sleep well, kid." 

Louis half-smiles, and Nick turns away. 

"Cool introduction," Gillian says ten minutes later, once they’re off the Strip and onto the highway, going fifteen miles over the speed limit, windows open. "Really feel like I know him, Grim." 

"Sorry," Nick laughs, one hand dangling out the window, wind rushing between his fingers. He’s got his eyes closed, because it’s bright and he’s exhausted. 

"Only kidding," she says. "Could see you two were having a moment. Tell me you fucked him, at least. He's _fit_ , Nick." 

Nick shrugs primly. “I don’t kiss and tell.” 

"That’s absolute bullshit, Nick Grimshaw,” she says delightedly. “That means you  _fancy_  him, doesn’t it? You won’t talk shit about his dick, that’s practically love in your language.” 

"Shut up," Nick snorts, and thankfully, she does. 

She also turns the radio up, steps on the accelerator as they reach the crest of a gentle hill on the highway, and Nick opens his eyes a little, takes a deep, steadying breath of dry desert air. Behind him is the Strip, pale and wan-looking in the morning, and before him is acres and acres of desert and one-level houses. It’s not romantic - no part of Vegas is romantic, at least after the first week or so - but Nick feels his chest tighten anyway, like something big’s happening. Like he’s figuring something out. 

"I’m alright, aren’t I?" he asks, barely audible over the rush of air outside the car.

"What?" Gillian yells, hair flying behind her, whipping in the wind. She looks over at him, eyebrows raised over her massive sunglasses. 

Nick shakes his head, strangely reassured, and closes his eyes. 


End file.
